2. Mariana
Mariana
I step out of my car, the crisp autumn air wrapping around me. After the call about my mom, I packed whatever I could and drove straight here. Home. Lake City, Colorado.
The scent of damp leaves lingers in the air, and trees stretch overhead, their canopies glowing in shades of gold, copper, and burnt orange.
I’ve always loved autumn here. Not just for its beauty, but for the way the town comes alive—the annual harvest festival, pumpkin carving contests, the farmers’ market brimming with fresh apples, homemade jams, and warm, flaky pies. It doesn’t get better than that.
Sometimes, I wonder why I ever left. I tell myself not to dwell on regrets, but some days, they sit heavy on my chest, impossible to ignore. Life in Seattle was supposed to be better. Easier. But looking back at the last few years, I can’t help but wonder…What if I had just stayed?
When Hilda called and told me my mom fainted during game night, my heart sank. She wouldn’t give details—just that my mom had fallen ill and needed to come home. Fast. I’ve known Hilda my whole life—more like a Tia than a family friend.
She was the first person my mom met when she moved here from Puerto Rico, and they’ve been inseparable ever since. She owns Ink may God rest his soul. He never wanted to be around us.” Her eyebrows furrow.
“Hey! That’s not fair. He loved coming here. He just worked a lot. And he missed me when I traveled too long.”
The words leave my mouth before I can stop them.
Once again, I’m defending him. I don’t know why—why I still fall into the role I played when he was alive.
Why is it easier to protect his image than to admit the truth?
Maybe because if I agree with them, I’d have to face the real question.
Why did I stay? And I don’t have an answer for that.
I can’t do this right now. I can’t keep pretending that Andrew was something he wasn’t. So, I latch onto the only thing that matters. “What’s going on with Mami? What exactly happened?”
“I told you already, Mari. We were playing dominos, and she was kicking our asses, when out of nowhere, she got up to make another margarita and fainted. We rushed to her, and I called an ambulance. She’s still in the hospital now.”
My stomach twists, my patience fraying. “Okay, but what is actually wrong with her? Why did she faint?”
Hilda crosses her arms. “You’ll have to talk to her about that.”
“I’m talking to you.”
Her expression sharpens, a warning in her eyes. “Watch that tone. She wants to talk to you directly, and I’m going to honor her wishes.”
I exhale sharply, forcing myself to back down. I know I pissed her off now, but I’m scared. She hasn’t told me anything, and I just want my mom to be okay. After losing my dad, the thought of losing her terrifies me.
I know I won’t win this fight. So instead, I say, “I’m heading to the hospital.”
Hilda softens. Without a word, she pulls me into another hug, squeezing tight, like she knows I need it. I cling to her warmth for just a second longer before pulling away.
I don’t know what I’m walking into at that hospital, but I know one thing—whatever my mom has to tell me, I’m not ready for it.
The moment I step through the hospital doors, my stomach lurches. The air feels thick, suffocating, pressing in on me from all sides. Memories slam into me. The last time I was here was when my dad died. When a stroke stole him from me. When my world shattered in an instant.
The walls close in. The sharp sting of disinfectant mixes with something metallic—blood, I realize. The scent clings to the back of my throat, making my stomach churn. The beeping monitors, the harsh fluorescent lights, the muffled voices of nurses—it all crashes over me like a tidal wave.
Cold sweat trickles down my back. My vision tunnels.
I bend over, hands gripping my knees, forcing in shaky breaths.
Please don’t throw up. Please don’t throw up.
I whisper the words over and over, a desperate prayer to my body to keep it together.
Minutes pass before I can stand straight again, before I can force my feet to move toward the front desk.
“Umm…Hi, I’m here to see my mom.” My voice comes out uneven, my nerves pressing at the edges.
“Mari?? Oh, sweet girl! It’s good to see you!”
I blink, my focus shifting to the woman behind the desk. Maria. One of my mom’s friends.
“Hi, Maria. It’s good to see you too.” I roll my lip between my teeth. “How’s my mom? Is she okay?”
Maria’s smile falters. Her lips press into a thin line. My stomach drops.
“She’s in room 204, sweetheart. Get on over to her. She’ll be so happy to see you.”
I walk into my mom's hospital room. It’s small, simple. A single bed sits in the center, its rails raised on either side. She’s asleep. I rushed over, grabbing her hand. It’s cold and clammy.
“Mami? I’m here.”
Slowly, her eyes flutter open. “Mija? Oh, Mariana. I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Of course, I’m here, Mami. I came as soon as Tía Hilda called. I was scared out of my mind.”
“I’m sorry I scared you, Mija.” She gently squeezes my hand.
“No, Mami, don’t be sorry! Just, please, tell me what’s going on. I’m losing it over here.”
She tries to sit up but is too weak, so she lays back down.
“Mari…” She takes a slow breath. “I love you so much, Mija. You’re a good girl. A good daughter. Papi and I have always been so proud of you.”
“I love you too, Mami, But you’re scaring me. Please. What’s going on?”
She exhales, her face lined with exhaustion. “For the past year, I’ve been feeling sick. Bloating, stomach pains, so tired all the time. I figured it was just age. My diet. I didn’t think it was a big deal.”
“Okay…?”
“One day, I felt awful, and Hilda convinced me to see a doctor. I went to see a gastroenterologist, but they couldn’t figure it out. I saw specialist after specialist, until, finally, a gynecologist ran more tests—pelvic exams, ultrasounds, bloodwork, and then a biopsy. She stops.
I grip her hand tighter. “And what did they say, Mami? Why are you sick?”
We’re both crying when she finally says it.
“Mija, I have stage 4 ovarian cancer.”
At that moment, my world caves in. The air is sucked from my lungs. Her words don’t make sense—they can’t be real. Cancer? No. No. No.
My hands shake as I grip the side of her bed, as if holding onto it will stop everything from spinning. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? Why am I finding out like this? I could have been there for you! You know I would’ve dropped everything to be with you.”
She strokes my cheek, her own tears spilling over. “And that’s exactly why, Mija. You lost Andrew. You’re mourning. I wanted you to take care of yourself. I didn’t want you to worry about me too.”
“You’re my mom. Of course, I’m going to worry about you.” My voice cracks. “How could you keep this from me? I deserved to know. I deserved every second with you, and you stole time from me.”
“I’m sorry, my love. I’m so sorry.”
I wipe my face with the back of my sleeve. “What’s the plan? What are they doing for you? How do we fix this?” My voice is desperate now. Pleading.
She squeezes my hand. “There’s no fixing this. I’ve been doing chemotherapy since I was diagnosed. They removed as much of the tumor as they could, but it’s spread, Mija.”
My heart shatters.
Once again, in this very hospital, my world is breaking into pieces. We’re holding onto each other, sobbing. She’s not going to make it out of this. I know that now. But she won’t go through it alone. I’m staying. For every moment, every breath, every second—I’ll be here.
I’m moving home. For good.
After spending the day with my mom, I finally headed to my childhood home.
The moment I step inside, I’m hit with the scent of home.
Not just the scent itself, but the years of love and warmth baked into the walls.
The faint traces of garlic, sofrito, and fried plantains still linger in the air, as if my mom had just stepped out of the kitchen, a wooden spoon in hand, ready to tell me to taste something.
There’s the familiar scent of black coffee, robust and earthy, a staple in our mornings together. It’s as if every meal she’s ever made is still woven into the walls, clinging to the air like a warm embrace.
I shut the door softly behind me and take slow steps into the living room. The house feels frozen in time—exactly as I remember it, yet impossibly different, like I don’t fully belong here anymore.
I stop at the photo wall, the collection of frames my mom has carefully arranged over the years.
My fingers brush lightly over a picture of her and Papi on their wedding day—him in a sharp black suit, her in a lace gown, eyes full of love.
Next to it is a picture of me as a baby—chubby cheeks, wild curls, toothless grin.
Another frame holds a photo of my mom’s family in Puerto Rico, all gathered outside my grandmother’s house, faces sun-kissed, frozen mid-laughter.
A lump rises in my throat, my vision blurring as tears prick my eyes. My dad’s gone. Now I’m going to lose my mom too. It isn’t fair. It isn’t fucking fair. I thought I had more time.
I sink onto the big red couch, the same one I curled into as a child when I was sick, when I was sad, when I just wanted to be near my parents. The worn fabric is soft beneath my fingertips, filled with years of memories.
The memories flood in, wrapping around me like a heavy blanket. The dance parties we had right here in the living room, music blasting from my dad’s old stereo, my mom twirling me around as we laughed until our stomachs hurt.
The smell of onions sizzling in a pan, my mom teaching me how to chop vegetables without slicing my fingers, showing me how to roll out dough for empanadas, and scolding me when I tried to eat the filling before it was ready.
The time I broke her lamp, hurling a ball across the room and watching in horror as it shattered into a million tiny pieces. I swore I could fix it before she got home. I swore she wouldn’t notice. She noticed.
The time I broke my arm, daring myself to jump from the ottoman to the couch, convinced I could fly.
The hard smack of the floor, the sharp, white-hot pain shooting through my arm.
My mom, frantic, rushed me to the hospital, holding my hand the entire time, whispering in my ear, “Mija, I’ve got you. You’re okay.”
I close my eyes and let out a slow, shaky breath.
I hit the jackpot with my parents. They loved me fiercely, without hesitation, without limits.
My dad worked himself to the bone to make sure we never went without.
My mom held us together, the glue that kept our little family whole.
When my dad died, I wasn’t sure how I was going to get through it.
Now, I don’t know how I’m going to do this all over again.
A chime pulls me from my thoughts. I glance at my phone—A text from Anna.
We met when we were four. I was shy; she was fearless. When Tommy, the class bully, shoved me down and stole my toy, I just sat there and cried. But Anna saw.
“Hey! That’s not yours, give it back!” She stormed right up to him and shoved him to the ground. “And say sorry while you’re at it!”
After he mumbled an apology, she turned to me and declared, “We’re best friends for life now.” And that was that.
Even after I moved to Seattle, we stayed close—constant texts and endless phone calls. Until Andrew. He pushed me away from her, from everyone. He never wanted her to visit.
I opened the text. I already know what it is going to say.
Anna
My mom told me she saw you today. How are you feeling? She told me what happened. I’m so sorry, babe. I’m here for you, always.
Mariana
Thanks, An. I’m still in shock. I can’t believe she’s sick, and I can’t believe it took her this long to tell me. I’m trying not to be mad at her, but I wish she would’ve told me sooner!
Anna
Totally understand. I’d be pissed if my mom or dad didn’t tell me they were sick. But I guess she was trying to shield you from the pain, especially considering what you’ve been dealing with.
Mariana
I’m not fragile. I didn’t need protecting. Andrew’s death has been hard, but she’s my mom. I deserved to know.
Anna
I get it. I guess with Andrew, and then the lupus—everyone was scared about how it might affect you. I’m sorry. Why don’t we meet for lunch tomorrow? I’ve missed you a ton.
Mariana
Sure, yeah. We can have lunch before I go see my mom at the hospital.
Anna
Sounds good. See you tomorrow.
I toss my phone aside and press my arm over my face. This day has drained everything out of me. I haven’t unpacked yet. I don’t have the energy. I curl into the couch, wrapping myself in the throw blanket from the armrest. Sleep takes hold.